


We Ignore What We Can't Forget

by NightoftheWereHunty



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Coal Mining Love Universe, F/M, Lydia-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-11
Updated: 2016-08-11
Packaged: 2018-08-08 01:01:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7736965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NightoftheWereHunty/pseuds/NightoftheWereHunty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Trying to drift away?”  he asks,  “Pretend you’re somewhere else?”</p><p>	“Even if I could, I wouldn’t be able to block out your smell,” she says with more bravado than she feels,  “That body’s a rental - you should at least keep it clean.”  </p><p>	She keeps her eyes closed until she feels the presence at her back.  The creature wearing Stiles’s skin grins and leans forward to press his cheek against Lydia’s turned head.  </p><p>	“You think he’ll get it back?” he says.  “I’m not so sure he even has a chance anymore.”</p><p>         There are many things Lydia has to ignore as she processes his words. Ignore that the tunnels are growing louder. Ignore the bars trapping her.  Ignore her fear.  The terrible breath-stealing, skull-crushing fear.  Ignore the void boy that smells of stale vomit. Ignore his lingering stare on her legs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Ignore What We Can't Forget

**Author's Note:**

> This is a part of the Coal Mining Love universe, but you don't have to read that to understand this story. This oneshot is more like a set up for some of the early themes and ideas addressed in Coal Mining Love. Also, for those of you that have read CML, I want you to know that I should have chapter 25 posted sometime next week. <3<3<3

    Lydia presses her face against the rusted bars hard enough to bruise her cheek.  She tries not to breath. She waits for the split second before she passes out.  When it’s easy to imagine being on the other side - her body a malleable putty that can ooze to the safety and freedom behind the bars.  It never works though.  Lydia remains unchanged on the edge of breath.  Solid and trapped with a manic.  Two minutes and thirteen seconds - that’s how long she’s held this breath.  Lydia sways on her feet and takes a gasping inhale.  Her head throbs with the rush of oxygen.   Another plus to holding her breath - the screams of the tunnel get fuzzy and soft.  In fact, everything gets fuzzy and soft.  Even the bars.  She pushes harder against the iron.  Maybe she’ll really pass out.  Or, if that fails, maybe she’ll press her head hard enough against the bars to crack her skull and die.  Either option is preferable to the outcome of her current situation.  She can’t think of anything over the sound of the tunnels.  Loud and shrieking.  Demanding cries.  Relentless in their pain and fear.  It’s almost deafening, but it doesn’t drown out the quickening footsteps behind her. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath.  
  
    “Trying to drift away?”  he asks,  “Pretend you’re somewhere else?”  
      
    “Even if I could, I wouldn’t be able to block out your smell,” she says with more bravado than she feels,  “That body’s a rental - you should at least keep it clean.”    
  
    She keeps her eyes closed until she feels the presence at her back.  The creature wearing Stiles’s skin grins and leans forward to press his cheek against Lydia’s turned head.    
  
    “You think he’ll get it back?” he says.  “I’m not so sure he even has a chance anymore.”  He talks directly into her ear, and the vibrations grind over her skin.  Stiles would never use a voice like that.  A rotten tone of glass shards dipped in molasses - so deep you can’t decide if it’s a purr or a growl.  It feels wrong against her ear drums.  She hates it. “You see,” the void boy continues after wetting his lips, “he’s gone quiet.”    
      
    He draws back with his words and allows Lydia to take a small step to the right.  The tiny increase of distance soothes her battered nerves.  The fox watches her, his previously dull eyes flickering with amusement.  He’s waiting for a response.  What had he said?  She thinks hard.  There are many things Lydia has to ignore as she processes his words. Ignore that the tunnels are growing louder. Ignore the bars trapping her.  Ignore her fear.  The terrible breath-stealing, skull-crushing fear.  Ignore the void boy that smells of stale vomit. Ignore his lingering stare on her legs.  
  
    “What do you mean gone quiet?” she says.  
  
    “He’s gone quiet,” he repeats with a lazy grin.  “As in I don’t hear him anymore, up here. No more nagging.”  He taps a finger to his head as he leans a shoulder against the bars next to Lydia. “And I can’t help wondering why that is,” he continues, “So I came up with some theories.  Want to hear them?”  
  
    “No,” she says while turning her head to the bars.  She can’t keep looking at him.  His movements are too calm, too premeditative to ever come from Stiles.  But it looks like him.  Sounds like him.  
  
    “Oh, I think you do, Lydia,” he says with a deep rasp,  “I think you’ll find them all very interesting.”     
  
    He pushes off the bars and walks over to sit on the steps behind him.  Lydia feels the space beside her open, but she stays huddled in the corner.  She knows the space is an illusion, fake, just like the boy behind her.  She’s as close to harm as she was before.  Maybe closer.  She turns around and pushes her back against the corner to keep tabs on the tainted fox.  His posture is relaxed, but his eyes are bright and focused on her with a disturbing steadiness.  He folds his mouth into a grin.  
  
    “Let’s play a game,” he says.  “I’ll tell you my three theories, and you guess which one is my favorite.”  He leans his head back, as if in thought, and then brings it back forward as he raises a finger.  “Okay, number one,” he continues, “Stiles is dead.”  
  
    Lydia breathes hard through her nose and clenches her fists.  She won’t react.  She won’t give him what he wants.  She’ll ignore everything about his rancid presence.  The smile on his face grows until the fox lets out a chuckle.  
      
    “But number one is unlikely,” he muses, “Because you’d know if he died, right, banshee?  Since you can already feel him dying.”  His tone hardens on the last word.  
  
    She grits her teeth and closes her eyes in an attempt to block out his voice.  
  
    “Alright, onto theory number two,” he says while holding up two fingers.  “Stiles is dying, and we just established that he is, so this one’s not even a stretch.  Anyway, he’s dying and now he’s too weak to talk anymore.  Too weak to fight.  He gives up.”  
  
    Lydia can’t stop the scoff that escapes her mouth, and she decides to take the mocking gesture one step further.  “Is that supposed to be a joke?” she says,  “You managed to steal his body, but you don’t know the first thing about him.  Stiles would never give up.  Ever.”  
  
    It’s unnerving that the void boy’s expression never changes during her declaration - his lips spread in a smile, his eyes hooded and sunken from lack of sleep.  
  
    “Really?” he says,  “You think so? Cause if that’s true, it makes theory number three way more exciting.”  Something in his stare makes Lydia want to avoid meeting his eyes. She’s being sized up.  Assessed.  She feels it.  “Number three also kinda requires a little bit of a backstory, you know, for context.  Sorta helps drive the gravity of the theory home.”  
  
    She hates it when the fox talks a lot.  Stiles’s body falls back into it’s natural speech patterns, and it becomes harder to separate the possessed from the possessor.     
  
    “So when I first got this body,” he says as he brings his hands together,  “He had a lot to say.  He was always right there, chattering away.  Just. . .  nonstop whining all the time.”  
  
    “This is a fascinating story,” Lydia remarks from behind forceable calm eyes.  
  
    “Yeah? Well, listen closely cause it gets better,” he says. “He’s been so loud up until now.   So the question is. . . why is now different?”  His voice drops into a timbre she’s never heard from Stiles before, and her body unconsciously tightens as he stands from the steps.  He approaches her slowly and gently moves a hand up to stroke her hair.  Lydia closes her eyes and increases the pressure of her hold on the bars.  The fox winds an arm around her waist and pulls her away from the iron and into his chest with a jolting yank.  Bits of skin tear away from her palms where her hands lose grip.  “You don’t seem very interested in the answer,” he says as he nuzzles her neck.  
  
    “That’s because I don’t care,” she says while using all her reserves to keep her voice from trembling.  She feels the creature grin against her neck as the hand in her hair becomes a little less gentle.  
  
    “Oh, Lydia,” the empty boy sighs,  “I do appreciate your brave face, but this is really something you should care about it.”    
  
    The banshee hardens her features in response, and grinds her jaw.  Maybe he’ll get bored if she doesn’t react.  The grip in her hair becomes punishing and she bites her lip to keep from showing her pain.  
  
    “You don’t care?  Not even a little bit?” he says.  “Even I said it’s about you?”  She can feel the fox’s eyes crawling over her.  His irritation is palpable and the changing energy of the tunnel makes it difficult to breath.  “Bullshit,” he says while shoving her away from him.  Lydia catches herself on the bars to stop her fall and turns wildly to keep her eyes on the unpredictable predator.  “I’m not the Stiles you remember, but I have everything that he was.  Right here,” the fox says while tapping his temple.  “I know how self-absorbed you are, Lydia.  I know the only thing that’s stopping you from asking the question you want to ask is your own pride.”  
  
    “Wrong,” she says,  “It’s your pride.  I won’t feed into it by playing these sick games.”  
  
    His eyes brighten, and he stretches his lips to show teeth as he says, “So then you do want to know. . .  You’re just too afraid to ask.”    
  
    “I’m not afraid of you,” she whispers.  
  
    “You know, I actually believe that,” he says as he braces his arms on the bars around her,  “which is way I’m not asking you to be afraid of me.”  The fox leans down so his eyes are level with Lydia’s.  “You’ve known about his crush on you for years,” he says,  “Did it make you feel powerful?  To know that there was a boy out there who’d do anything for you?”  
  
    “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says as she fights back tears.    
  
    “Oh, Lydia,” he chuckles,  “That’s cute. . ..”  
  
    “You’re not him.  He’d never. . . ”  
  
    “Never what?”  he says as he reaches a hand to gently wipe away her tears.  “Tell you that you look beautiful when you cry?”  She holds her breath as his fingers move along her cheek.  The touch is tender, but his eyes are impassive.  Curiously detached.  “You do, you know,” he says softly.  He catches one last tear then brings his salty thumb to his mouth.  Lydia wants to look away, but her entire body is frozen with rage.  How dare he do this.  Not him, it.  Because it is a demon, not a boy.  She has to remind herself.    
      
    Lydia pushes it off with all her strength.  The fox stumbles back with a small smile as if it’d expected her attack.    
  
    “So, do you know theory number three yet?” it asks.  “Have you put it together, little miss genius?”  The demon bites out the words.  
  
    Lydia covers her ears and turns back to compress her face against the bars.  Fingers dig under hers and pry her hands from her head. The fox pulls Lydia’s hands down to her side and presses up against her in a mock embrace.  
  
    “Do you know how long he’s dreamt about having you?” it curls its fingers in-between hers and squeezes until Lydia’s forced to let out a small gasp of pain.  “If you only knew all the thoughts running around his head. . . Want to hear some?”  
  
    “Stop it,” she says, short of breath from panic.  
  
    “You say that in some of them,” he continues while shifting behind her to rest his head on her shoulder.  She’s sure he’s about to break her hands with his grip.  Not him; it.  Lydia’s about to scream out when the demon moves its grip from her hands to her wrists.  Her bones won’t break now, but it’s still excruciatingly painful.  “Of course, he has gentler thoughts too, but boys will be boys,”  the fox sighs.  
  
    “Shut up,”  she hisses as she tries to free her hands from its numbing grip.    
  
    “You know he’s not a virgin anymore?” it asks in a conversational tone while increasing the pressure on Lydia’s wrists.  “There was this tight little coyote in Eichen House.  We had fun with her. . .  Haven’t you thought about it?  What he’d be like?”  it says while moving Stiles’s mouth over the junction of her neck and shoulder.  “I could show you.”  
  
    Lydia wrenches a hand free and uses it to claw whatever flesh she can reach.  He ignores her struggles and moves his hand up to her neck.  Lydia scratches deep rivets down his arm until he applies enough pressure that she begins to feel light headed.  But he doesn’t stop.  It.  Not Stiles.  The lack of air builds until her body feels heavy.  She pulls at the hand around her throat as black spots creep into her vision, and then she loses the strength to keep her arm up at all.  She thinks this feels different from when she held her breath.  From when she could imagine escape.  She makes a strange gurgling rattle.  Maybe she’s dying.  The fox loosens its hold on her throat, but keeps a hand wrapped around her neck as subtle warning.  She coughs as soon as air touches her throat, but her lungs are greedy.  They demand air.  Lydia takes almost two full minutes to control the cough.  She measures the passage of time by the tapping of its fingers against the pulse of her neck.  Its warm breath fans over her shoulder and though her hair as it speaks, but Lydia doesn’t hear what it says.  She’s spinning.  Busy falling back into the despair of the cries around her.  Her legs buckle, and the banshee sinks back into the void boy holding her.  
  
    “Please, stop,” she whispers.  She’s not sure who she’s talking to - the voices or him.  
  
    “Shhhh, shhh,” he mumbles against her ear.  “It’s okay.”  He moves his hand from her throat and turns her around so she can lean against the iron, rusted bars.  
  
    Lydia scarcely processes the words before his mouth is covering hers.  She turns her head, but hands are in her hair, twisting and holding her head in place.  The bars bite into her back as he presses into her immobilized body.  His tongue forces her lips open and sweeps through the corners of her mouth, pushing her head back further into the bars as he explores and probes.  She’s never been more repulsed by a kiss in her life.  And kiss is the wrong word.  This feels like he’s pouring rage into her mouth.  A stale, yet burning anger.  It scorches her tongue and makes her sick to her stomach.  She might vomit.  Lydia pushes her hands against his shoulders, but the fox seems not to notice.  She moves her hands to his hair and tries pulling his face away from hers, but that only makes him smile.  No, wait.  Not him, right?  It.  She feels its lips curve as it continues the assault on her mouth.  It’s only when she drags her nails down the sides of the demon’s face and bites its lip that it stops and pulls back from her.  
  
    “Ow,” the thing wearing his face says with a grin while licking blood from its punctured lip, its hands still wound in her hair.  “Jesus, Lydia.  You’re a wildcat.”  
  
    “Let go of me.”  
  
    “Yeah, that’s not gonna happen,” the fox says as it tightens its hold in her hair.  “But I’ll give you a choice.  You can fight, like you are, or you can just give me what I want.  What he wants.”  
  
    “That’s not a choice,” she nearly sobs.  
  
    “Oh, it definitely is.  You just need to consider the end results,” it says while cupping her cheek and tilting her head up to face him.  “If you fight me, I’ll hurt you,” it says in a voice too tender to match his words,  “Do you want me to hurt you?”  it strokes her cheek with his thumb, and Lydia can’t stop the tears that tumble out her eyes at the mockery of affection.  This can’t be real.  Can’t be happening. Not with his face.  Anyone but Stiles.  
  
    “So which one, Lydia?” it says as he slides his hand from her neck to her collarbone and then further down.  “Do you give or do we take?”  
  
  
  
  
    The moment Lydia sees Stiles stumbling down the hall with Scott’s arms supporting him, she knows it’s really him.  The fox could never fake the relief and exhaustion in the human’s eyes.  Scott leans Stiles against the wall and walks towards Lydia with an expression of building concern.  The closer he gets to her, the more his face twists, and the concern is overshadow by something of a more hostile nature.  He’s mad.  She looks down at her herself quickly, afraid something about her clothes gave her away her recent activity.  Then she remembers.    
  
    Werewolves.    
  
    How could she forget?  Of course Scott would smell what she did.  What was given.  She sinks into her thoughts before Scott pulls her out with a forceful grip on her upper arm.  He takes her to the side and away from Stiles before he speaks.  
  
    “Are you okay?”  
  
    The words surprise her.  Isn’t he angry?  She doesn’t know how to respond.  No, she’s not okay.  But none of them are okay, so what does matter?  The screams drown out her thoughts.  Lydia can barely make out the words over the volume of the voices.  She remembers one thing.  She’s not dead.  The screams aren’t for her.  Maybe she should have died down here.  Died and saved everyone the trouble of saving her.  Who are the screams for again?  Her silent stare must not sit well with the Alpha because he moves his hands to her shoulders and squeezes.  
  
    “Lydia, are you okay?” he repeats the words in an unmistakable panic.  
  
    She takes a shallow breath and folds her bottom lip between her teeth.  “I told you not to look for me,” she says.  “Who else is here?  Who did you bring with you?”  She can’t control the fear in her voice.  Oh god.  Oh god. Oh god.  He brought her.  She knows before he answers.  Scott brought Allison.  Lydia grabs the Alpha’s shirt sleeve, but her voice won’t come out.  Panic seizes her words.  All she can do is crush his shirt fabric in her hand.  It’s about to happen.  She feels it.  
  
    Scott turns and runs from the tunnels.  He won’t make it in time.  Lydia knows that.  Her eyes follow his shrinking form until a groan from behind demands her attention.  Stiles attempts to stand before he sinks back to the ground.  She can hear his ragged breathing.  It takes effort to stop her trembling as she walks over to him.  It’s not the same boy that pushed her against iron bars.  This is Stiles.  That was a demon.  Still, she wishes he could stand on his own.  His arms draped over her shoulder make it difficult to breath.  
  
    And then it happens.  The katana pierces through her stomach and Allison’s presence shrinks from her mind.  Shrinks from the world and drifts away into nothingness.  The banshee drops to her knees.  Stiles drops beside her and stares with confusion at Lydia’s rapid breathing.  She must have screamed because her throat is raw but she can’t remember doing it. She vaguely registers the pressure of arms around her and Stiles frantic voice murmuring against her ear.  
  
    His voice against her ear again.    
  
    She pushes Stiles off of her and gags.  A trail of spit hangs from her mouth, but Lydia can’t find the strength to wipe it away.  She feels hands in her hair, and she freezes.  She holds her breath and waits for the fingers to pull and twist, but to her surprise, they gently gather her hair and lift it from her face so she can continue gagging without hair in her mouth.  Stiles.  This is Stiles.  He is the one touching her.  Not it.  Not the demon.  
  
    “I have to see her,” Lydia says.  The words burn her tongue and leave an acidic aftertaste that must be bile, but she ignores it and struggles to her feet.  It takes them longer than she likes to exit the tunnels, but Stiles is weak and she can’t leave him.  No matter how much she wishes she could.  She sees Scott first.  His back is to them and his head hangs limp, almost not visible from behind his shoulders.  Stiles stops then, and pulls back from Lydia.  
  
    “You go,” he says in a ragged tone.  “You go, I’ll stay here.”    
  
    She doesn’t argue, relived to have her body back to herself, and continues walking towards the silent Alpha.  The banshee can see Allison now, cradled in Scott’s arms.  Her eyes stuck staring at the sky and her mouth agape, but with no breath to push through her lips.  Empty.  Her best friend is empty, and Lydia is lost.  She stands by the body until Chris Argent pulls her aside.  Don’t stare, he tells her.  Don’t do that to yourself.  It’s not your fault.  
  
    Then who’s fault is it?  Her eyes drift over to Stiles, still crumpled by the doorway, and she bites her cheek to stop the curses she wants to scream at him.  It’s not fair.  Who can they blame?  
  
    “I did this,” she mumbles.    
  
    Scott looks at her from across the parking lot and his face tightens into a grimace as he shakes his head.  She turns away quickly, not willing to accept the werewolf’s comfort.  He doesn’t try to talk to her, but he stays near her after that.  Sits next to her on the way to the police station.  Holds her hand as they walk into the building.  She would have pulled away if she’d been aware of her body, but she doesn’t feel anything.  Can’t remember anything other than Allison’s vacant eyes.  She thinks she’s alone as she walks out of the station until he speaks to her.  
  
    “You should shower,” the True Alpha says without looking at her.  “I won’t tell anyone, but you should shower before we meet up with the others.”  
  
    For one second, she doesn’t understand.  What does she smell like?  Then she remembers.   The bars against her back.  The bruising hands.  The stale breath.  How much can Scott smell?  She must have spoken out loud because he’s looking at her now.  A pity filled stare with a tinge of anger bleeding into his eyes.  
  
    “Never mind, it’s not important,” he says, but the hard clenching of his jaw and his balled fists tell her he’s lying.  He’s not trying to shame her, she knows that, but the feeling crawls inside her chest and burrows into her every cell in her body.  She wishes she was dead.  She wishes Allison was alive.  Wishes she never had to see Stiles again.    
          
    Not Stiles; it.  
  
    That’s right.  It wasn’t her friend.  It only looked like him.  Sounded like him. Knew how to hurt her like him. But it wasn’t Stiles because Stiles would never do that to her.  Right?  
  
    “Lydia.”  Scott’s voice makes her jump.  She’d forgotten he is standing there.  “You don’t have to go if you don’t want too,” he says gently. His body sags with the words as if he’s fighting off a wave of exhaustion.  “I don’t want anyone else to get hurt.”  
  
    She jerks her head up to face him, her mouth open in incredulous confusion.  “Jesus Christ, Scott.  I know I don’t have super powers like everyone else, but,” she says as her voice drifts off,  “I’m not going to sit around and let that thing. . . I'm going with you.  End of discussion,”  
  
    Scott looks like he wants to argue with her, but instead he closes his eyes and sighs. "Alright," he says, "let's go."  He doesn’t wait for her to say okay, but turns and walks towards his bike with slow, dragging steps.  
  
    Lydia stares at the space he previously occupied before following him to the motorcycle with equally sluggish movements.  She takes the offered helmet and gently slips it over her head.  There’s a wet stain on Scott’s jacket that she doesn’t notice until she wraps her arms around his waist for safety.  She can’t see it, only feel it, but instantly, she knows what the stain is.  The banshee tucks her head behind the Alpha’s back and tries to block out the feel of Allison’s blood pressing against her arm.  She bites her lip at the sensation and clenches her eyes shut.  She uses the majority of the ride to make sure she knows the difference between Stiles and it.  It killed Allison.  Stiles did not.  It hurt her.  Stiles did not.  It is going to die.  Stiles is not.  
  
    “Are you sure you’re okay?”  Scott asks her, his voice is muffled from the helmet and the wind despite his loud volume.  Lydia doesn’t trust her voice so she simply nods ‘yes’ against his back.  The werewolf doesn’t call her on the lie even when the banshee begin softly crying beneath her helmet.

**Author's Note:**

> The whole "it" and "him" pronoun confusion was on purpose. Hopefully it showed how torn Lydia was on facing a demon wearing Stiles's face and the constant effort that went into separating the two.
> 
> Anyway, let me know what you think about it. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
